Your Table or Mine?
by fiadorable
Summary: Robin and Regina on a blind date. Modern Outlaw Queen AU. New oneshot: Tastes Like Hope
1. Your Table or Mine?

I've already been waiting for twenty minutes by the time he shows up.

Not _he_, my blind date, as I'd hoped when the hostess began walking this way, but _he_, the man the hostess leads to the small table next to mine, the man who murmurs a polite, accented, "Excuse me," as he edges sideways between our two tables and slides across the bench running along the back wall of the restaurant. The same bench I'm sitting on, trying not to fiddle with the stupid daisy lying limp on the white tablecloth next to my second glass of water.

The hostess offers me a sympathetic smile and a half shrug after handing the man his menu. I'm sorry this hottie isn't for you, she seems to say. She's a sweet girl, young, and doesn't deserve the scowl I feel rising up to my lips. I refrain, somehow, managing a brief, tight smile before the blonde walks back to the hostess stand. A female server walks up to her and whispers something in her ear, and then they both glance back at me, shake their heads, and giggle behind handfuls of menus as they consider the man next to me.

I might have to start plucking petals from this flower.

Only the somewhat insane idea that my date might still show keeps my fingers from shredding the blossom.

The calling card was my idea, not his. I'm not a mushy person by anyone's standard (depressingly practical, my son would say), but I have a soft spot for _You've Got Mail_ and Meg Ryan's affinity for the "friendliest flower". A small bouquet of daisies guards the small table in my foyer that collects mail, car keys, and winter gloves and hats. Today I'd plucked the healthiest looking bloom from the white vase and threaded it through the top buttonhole of my red pea coat to keep it safe on the drive over.

Of course now I'm glad I decided against the rather cliche single rose as my identifier. There aren't any other tables with flowers on them, but at least my daisy doesn't scream, "I've been stood up by a stranger!" to anyone looking my way.

Except the hostess. Who's spying on me again, her smile toeing the line into the realm of pity.

I will not have a giggly twenty-something feel sorry for me.

Before I can do anything other than seethe in silence, Andrew, the urbane young man waiting on my table, strides over to the man seated near me to take his drink order.

"I'll just have a water to start with, thanks," the man says, still scanning the menu propped in his lap. "I'm waiting on someone else to arrive."

"As you wish, sir," Andrew says. He steps over to the other side of my table. "Another water for you, ma'am?"

"Oh, I think we're past the point of water. What do you know about the cocktails here?" Twenty minutes late means having a drink without my date is no longer rude.

"Anything I don't know I can find out. Shoot."

"Tell you what. You go find out if your bartender makes a whiskey sour with actual lemons or that disgusting 'sour mix', and if it's the former I'll take one of those."

"And if it's the latter?"

"Bring me one anyway, but know that my opinion of this establishment will forever be tarnished."

"Yes, ma'am," Andrew says, flashing a row of very straight, white teeth before vanishing toward the bar.

The man next to me chuckles.

"Is there a hidden joke in the daily specials?" I ask, a little peeved to have been eavesdropped on, even if there was no way he could not have heard what I was saying. There's only a foot or two of space between us at best.

"Apologies," the man says. He closes the menu and slides it across the table with both hands until its edge aligns with the table's. "I couldn't help but overhear you."

"Third party laughter."

"I'm sorry?"

"Third party laughter. When someone who's not included in the conversation laughs at something said."

"Ah, yes, well, then I'm guilty as charged. My name's Robin," he says, holding a hand out.

"Regina." I shake his hand, and then fold my arms on the table again.

Must not dismantle flower. Must not dismantle flower in front of man who is not my date, who is waiting on his own date, who is setting off white hot pings of attraction in my chest.

Andrew returns with my whiskey sour and Robin's water. I take a sip and nod. No sour mix here, thank goodness. Andrew smiles and hurries off to fetch another table's order. He reminds me of Henry, a little. Same dark hair, and even though he's older than Henry he still has that hint of a boyish smile, a tiny jaunt to his step.

Robin's phone rings, clattering against the silverware. "Excuse me, this is my date, I believe."

"Of course," I murmur. The pang of jealousy in my gut is only because his date had the decency to call and let him know she was running late. Emma should have given me Mystery Date's phone number.

I pull my phone from my purse and thumb the power button. A text message lights the screen. My heart double jumps, but then I see it's only Henry being nosy, asking how my date is going. Bless his heart, he was more excited about today than I was, and I can't bear to break his heart by telling him his mother's been stood up. Again.

_I'm fine, Henry. Did you clean your room?_

Next to me, Robin has shifted his body away from me to have his conversation. I shouldn't listen. I really can't help it, though. If he'd wanted privacy, he should have gone outside.

"Yes, of course. I understand. Some other time, perhaps."

He slides his knees back under the table and slips his phone into his jacket pocket, blowing air through his teeth. "It would figure the one time I arrive early for a date, she cancels."

"Are you habitually late?"

"Alas, I'm afraid so."

"Then I'd call that karma."

"She's a real bitch. You should steer clear of her."

My laugh startles me. He smiles, bites his bottom lip for a moment, and then shakes his head, returning his attention to his drink, sliding his fingers along the sweaty curves of glass.

My phone buzzes, and I jump, hoping I'm not blushing and that my transfixion with the movements of his hand has gone unnoticed.

He bites his bottom lip again and smirks, still fiddling with his glass. Wonderful. I turn to my phone and read Henry's response.

_Room is clean. Can Grace come over?_

Oh, he knows better than that. I huff and tap out a response.

_With no adults at home? Nice try._

He claims Grace is just a friend, and I believe him, but I also see the way she looks at him and the way he looks at her, and I don't think that line is going to remain uncrossed for long. Grace is sweet, polite, and intelligent, but I was all those things once, too, and I remember the headyness of being fifteen and knowing everything and nothing all at once.

"Your date?" Robin asks when I've set down my phone. He sips his water and then sets it down, makes a show of folding his hands on the table, several inches away from the glass. Cheeky bastard.

"No, my son."

His eyebrows raise. "You have a son? So do I. How old is your boy?"

"Fifteen going on thirty."

"There must be a mistake." He frowns, leans back, squints at me as though looking into a bright light. "There's no way a woman as young as yourself has a son that old."

A smirk tugs the right corner of my mouth. "And how old do you think I am?"

"Not a day over twenty-eight," he says without any hesitation.

"Try thirty-four."

"An older woman. I like that. And one who's not ashamed of her age."

"I earned every one of those years. Don't try to shortchange me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, holding his hands up in surrender.

My phone lights up again, this time with two text messages, one from Henry and one from Emma. I check Henry's first.

_Worth a shot. Don't do anything I'm not allowed to do!_

I shake my head, a little embarrassed at his insinuation, but Emma's message confirms Henry's advice is unnecessary.

_Your date just got called into emergency surgery. I told you he was a doctor, right? Sorry!_

She'd gone out and found me the one person on the planet busier than I am. Figures.

"It's official. I'm calling this date a bust," I say, laying my phone face down on the table.

If I head home now, I can be there in time to cook Henry dinner instead of letting him order pizza, and then he can invite Grace over and maybe I can get the full scoop on what's going on between them. My teenager has a more promising love life than I do. Depressing. And not something I want to think about right now.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Robin asks as I begin pulling my belongings together.

I pause, one arm already in the sleeve of my coat, the other raised to tug it over my shoulder. "Well, I…."

"Stay," Robin says. "We've both been stood up. We have a rapport going. You find me intriguing and I quite frankly think you're adorable."

"Oh, I do?"

And you do?

He nods. "Very much. And as I've already paid my babysitter for the afternoon, I'd much rather enjoy the company of a beautiful, funny, strong woman such as yourself than dine on my own."

I shrug my arm out of my sleeve, leaving the coat pooled behind me on the bench. "You can't have gotten all of that about me from the five minutes of conversation we've had."

"Perhaps not, but I'm willing to bet that with some additional conversation and a little food to balance out the rush of attraction my assumptions will be proven correct."

Now I know I'm blushing. He's arrogant, yes, but charming in a way that doesn't grate as much as it should.

_You were going to have lunch with a complete stranger, a friend of Emma's, no less, and now you want to run from the handsome, willing man sitting next to you? This is why Henry is worried about you, Regina. You have no sense._

"Ok," I say.

"Ok?"

"That's what I said." He's surprised I've said yes. Interesting.

"Excellent. Your table or mine?"

"Mine," I say, settling back into the bench, crossing my legs under the table and my arms across my chest. "I've been here longer."

"As milady wishes," Robin says, and as he moves from his table to mine, I catch a whiff of his cologne again, light and outdoorsy, and the scent takes me back to my days jumping horses in the mountains at summer camp. Fond memories of where I met Henry's late father, but ones I don't revisit often. Today it doesn't bother me, though, because Robin is sitting across from me now and he's smiling, and for some unknown, intrinsic reason my heart is glad to have found myself in this moment with him.

"Hello, my name is Robin Locksley," he says, holding out his hand again.

I smirk, lean forward, and take his hand. "I'm Regina Mills."

Instead of the handshake from earlier, he turns my hand and presses his lips to my fingers, his blonde stubble rough against my skin. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Mills." His eyes never leave mine as speaks, and where I'd first seen them as an icy blue, they're heated now, quickened into blue flame.

Later I'll blame the shiver that passed through me as an errant draft in the room, but I can't pass off my voice lowering half an octave as I respond, "The pleasure is all mine," with anything other than unguarded attraction.

He smiles, squeezes my hand, and I can't help but wonder if perhaps Henry's warning will be necessary after all.

Wouldn't that be something.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Drop me a note and let me know what you thought! Especially if you liked/disliked the first person pov. I know it turns some people off, but for some reason this story refused to be written any other way.**


	2. Tastes Like Hope

_This is a (late/early) joint birthday fic for lala-kate and thisisamadhouse (HuddyJobbsAddict_)_. The former sent me a dialogue prompt ("I don't know how to do this") and the latter requested Your Table or Mine. I aim to please, ladies. Big thanks to lillie-grey for reading this several times and being insightful and wonderful._

_This fic picks up directly after the end of YToM (so you might want to read it first or refresh your memory) and is rated A for awkward and K for kissing._

* * *

Never have I ever had a blind date teeter on the precipice of anything akin to… _hope_. My nose wrinkles, lips twisting as I play with the word in my mouth, tongue swirling over the rounded letters, teeth chewing the stems of the others. Its edges are charred, as always, but a bright undercurrent, a quick zest of citrus or the smoky edge of baked pears grows alarmingly stronger under my attentions.

I swallow hard, and straighten my face to polite interest as I finish tallying my tip for Andrew and scrawl my name across the merchant receipt. Across the table, Robin signs his own credit card slip with a quick slash of the ballpoint he'd pulled from his coat pocket. He raises his brows, murmurs, _Shall we? _and then we're standing outside in the coolness of a post-sunset evening, the easy fluidity of our conversations indoors stuttering, stalling in the crisp September breeze.

A faint, singed bitterness creeps up the back of my throat.

I don't know how to do this anymore.

This, dating.

This, flirting with someone I don't want to simply wine, dine, and leave behind.

This, standing outside a bar, juggling a daisy and a take away box housing a double chocolate fudge brownie for Henry, while I try to button my coat. I'm going to crush the flower or drop the box and Robin is watching me with a bemused little smile housed below his trimmed blonde scruff, and goddamn it, he's not supposed to be able to affect me like this after one afternoon spent dawdling over drinks. This is… we were intentionally on a date awkwardness, not we both got stood up so let's share a meal together awkwardness.

"May I?" Robin asks, pressing his fingers lightly to my wrist, nodding toward my parcels.

I exhale a brief smile and allow him to take them from me, now able to slip my coat buttons through the eyelets with deft, unencumbered fingers. "Thank you," I manage, holding a hand out for my things.

He surrenders the box, but keeps hold of the daisy, twirling the bent stem between his fingers. "So, Shopgirl," he says, a wicked grin blooming on his face. "Do I need to request your email address and send you witty, flirtatious messages about bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils for weeks before I ask you out on a proper date?"

I snort and shake my head, a snarky comment dancing on the tip of my tongue, but then he stretches his hand out and tucks the daisy behind my ear, fingers painting a tender line down to the corner of my jaw before retreating. My jest evaporates, fizzling on my lips as they part slightly. He waits for my answer, head cocked to the side like a puppy, a lopsided smile warming both his face and mine.

_Two weeks from Saturday_, I'll say. _That's when I'm free next_. I'll reach for the corner of his jacket pocket and palm his phone, text myself a clever message from his device, and then hand it back with a coy smile and an accidentally-on-purpose brush of my fingers against his before bidding him _adieu_. Then I'm going to walk away with a flirty smile over my shoulder, dignity intact.

It's a nice dream.

Until the words stick in my throat and I run.

I'm going to hurl. The expensive liquor, the fish and chips, minus one bite I spared for him, everything sloshes up the walls of my stomach, every step toward my car delivering a juddering strike to my insides.

_Why are you doing this? You always do this._

Because Regina Mills is a big, fat 'fraidy cat, that's why. Truth is, I never go on these dates expecting anyone to stick around after the big three drop from my lips: single mother, small business owner, admitted workaholic. I stop a few inches from the passenger side door, worrying the seam on my key fob with my thumbnail. Robin might be different, though. Things other men shrank from seemed to inspire him, sparking questions and conversations that petered out and flared by turn as we navigated through the afternoon come evening. Natural. Comfortable. Terrifying.

_When does this end, Regina? What's standing in the way?_

Nothing. There is literally nothing standing between me and that poor man I left outside the bar without so much as a _thank you for the company_. My reflection frowns at me in the window, and I scowl harder to see it. Unlocking the door, I nestle Henry's dessert against the back of the seat. The flower tucked behind my ear shifts as I straighten, and with it, something inside me I've not felt in a long time. My fingers ghost over the same path his fingers traced earlier, and I nod once, mind set.

Second chances aren't my forte. They slip through my fingers like flurries of dandelion seeds, and I allow it, mind, but this one is different. I click my key fob twice as I spin on my heel, the _chirp chirp _of the car alarm resetting shrill in my ear. Please, please let him still be there. Something about Robin settles the discordant humming in my veins, mellowing the dissonance, like the summer sun on my face after a winter of nights, and I find myself aching for the warmth of daylight.

I round the corner and my breath catches. He's perched on a bench below a street light, legs sprawled wide, elbows resting on his knees as he speaks quietly into his phone. Do I interrupt or not?

Habit screams: _run away_. A softer, newly insistent whisper cuts through habit's noise: _go forward_.

My left heel catches the sidewalk seam as I push toward him, but I manage to catch myself before face planting. The scuff of my boot heels on the concrete attracts his attention, though, and he stands as I approach, ending his call with a _Call you later, Will_, shoving his phone into his pocket.

"Regina," he says, distress crinkling lines across his forehead. "I apologize for my forwardness earlier. I shouldn't have—"

No. No apologies. No more talking. I wrap my fingers around his lapels and tug him into an embarrassingly needy kiss. Right there on the sidewalk under the muted yellow halo of the street lamp.

It's not elegant or sweet or fiery or any of those things a first kiss should be, but the stubble of his upper lip scratches the softness of mine and he tastes like whiskey and salt and something deep and cool, like I could fall into him and my toes would never touch bottom, and for once (twice) in my life that would be okay.

We break apart with a slight pop. Oh, god. What have I done? I gawp at him, pulse thready and nerves jangling, lips parted as my chest heaves, and, god help me, I can't tell if he's pissed or aroused as he does the same.

I croak out the beginning of my own apology, but he surges forward before I can muster the first syllable. Our lips crash together as his fingers sweep my hair back, knocking the daisy loose. It's stolen by the wind, I think. Not really sure because his fingers are doing _things _to my scalp and the back of my neck, not to mention his other hand warm and solid on the small of my back. Definitely aroused, I think, smiling into the kiss, relief and spike of delicious heat flooding my system as he wraps me into his embrace.

Okay. _This _I know how to do.


	3. It Always Starts as Nothing

The bass line from Henry's music thrums in my chest as I pull into the garage and switch off the Benz. I've _told_ him he's going to wreck his hearing if he keeps cranking the volume that high on his stereo. Not to mention the noise complaints from the neighbors. They're at least the decent sort who will call or knock on the door before getting the police involved, but everyone has their limit. Given how loud Henry's music is, I'm surprised my phone hasn't been inundated with calls. Did I remember to turn the ringer up after the spontaneous date with Robin? I hadn't silenced it completely in case Henry needed something, but I'm sure it was nestled in my coat pocket when I left the restaurant.

My fingers pat down my front and sides in a frantic crawl until I feel the hard rectangle of my phone wedged deep in my left pocket, trapped below the wide strap of the seatbelt. Oh, good. It didn't get knocked loose when Robin and I were kissing by the bench. Or walking through the city park. Or making out against the door of his truck.

_Regina, what did you do?_

I let my head thud against the headrest, lift my wrist to check the time on my watch. Nearly 11:30pm. Any minute now Mrs. Lucas will start ringing my number, complaining about the music or that we left our trash can out on the curb too long last Thursday, and I'll have to remind her that her granddaughter, Ruby, tried to break into my house thinking it was hers last weekend. Almost got herself shot on the back patio because I thought she was Sidney violating the protection order again, too.

I don't want to deal with nosy neighbors right now, not with the pleasant haze of my date still lingering, a centering swirl curled in my chest like a lazy cat napping in a pool of sunlight.

But Henry's music really is too loud for this hour.

Eleven thirty is later than I said I'd be home when I left for this blind date, thinking it would be a nice dinner with a little bit of conversation and wine and then home by nine. I'd called Henry when my plans changed, and he'd said he'd be fine on his own for a little longer, encouraged me to go have fun.

And in truth, I _did_ have fun. Maybe a little too much fun, I think as I unlock the front door. It's been a long time since those pleasant, fluttery feelings deigned to make themselves known. I may have behaved unseemingly for the mother of a fifteen-year-old, but I'm finding it difficult to care.

All the lights are out downstairs. I drop my purse in my office, flip through the mail on my desk, checking to see if my delinquent client, Schaeffer, Blanchard &amp; Associates, sent in his payment yet (no, no he has not, damn him, which means I get to start small claims court proceedings on a law firm of all things on Monday, fantastic), and then slip off my heels.

All I want right now is my pajamas and a glass of water. In that order.

I scoop up the to-go box with Henry's dessert and head upstairs. His room is the first door on the right. Dim, yellow light illuminates a strip of carpet in front of the threshold. The current song ends, and as I'm raising my hand to knock, a high-pitched giggle slips into the hallway.

Hold up, now.

I said, _I said_ Grace could not come over, and that statement was not reneged when I stayed later than planned. Screw knocking.

"Henry Daniel Mills!"

"Mom!"

Oh, God.

A blur of hands, clothes, and feet squirm on the bed as I jam the power button on his computer speakers with my thumb. They get five seconds to collect themselves as I thunk the black to-go box down on his desk, fist propped on my hip, lips pressed together as I attempt to get a handle on my temper.

The first thing I notice when I raise my head is that they're both still wearing their shoes, which eases a small measure of relief into my gut. Not that that means anything, but I'll take what I can get, considering I just walked in on Grace pinning Henry to the bed with his hand up her shirt. Or at least I think that's what I saw.

"What did I say when you asked if Grace could come over?"

"No," Henry mumbles, hands folded between his knees.

"And at any point did I indicate that decision had changed?"

"No, ma'am."

"Explain yourself, then."

He looks up, red-faced and contrite until he focuses somewhere along my jawline. "Mom, what's that?" Henry asks, eyes narrowing as he stares at me.

Oh, God. Robin didn't.

"What's what?" I say, dread lancing through my gut even as I hike an eyebrow, attempting imperious and aloof even as realization blooms across Henry's face.

Robin said he wouldn't. Specifically.

"_I shall attempt to leave you unmarked, milady," he murmurs, his breath hot against the slick trail he's kissed along the column of my neck, "But I make no promises if you keep making that enchanting noise when I kiss you."_

"_What noise?"_

Well. Maybe not specifically. Damn.

Henry taps his own neck with two fingers, behind his ear and then further along his jaw, a smug little grin creeping across his face as I lift my hand to mirror him. Which is stupid because it's not as though I can confirm the existence of the red welt (welts, plural, he tapped twice) with my fingertips.

I have a vague recollection of how this happened.

_He chuckles as he drags his teeth over my pulse and then sucks, hard, and damn him, he may have a point. I can't remember the last time a man drew a sound like this from my lips, this aching, high pitched little gasp rising like steam from a too hot shower, and then he shifts his attentions further down, and the sound billows into a deeper, throatier moan as he—_

Ok, a not so vague, very specific recollection of how and when it happened, but now is not the time.

Grace, for her part, is still sitting on the edge of Henry's bed, one arm folded tight across her stomach, shirt slightly askew. She chews on her thumbnail and glances from Henry to me, looking as though I might at any moment grow horns and devour her, and that mollifies me somewhat.

Not enough to let them (or Robin, damn him) off the hook, though.

"Grace, does your father know where you are?"

"No, ma'am," she says, her voice quiet, but steady. Despite my frustration with the two of them, I do like her. She's terrified of me, but she doesn't back down from anyone. "His flight home was delayed, and I told him I was at Ava's when he called from San Diego. I was supposed to see if they would let me stay the night."

This is news. Last time we spoke, Jefferson hadn't mentioned he was going to start traveling again. Grace's father and I have a… storied history with each other, the gory details of which remain carefully locked away from our children. It was a shock to find ourselves face to face at third grade orientation seven years ago, but we've managed to create a healthy friendship from the dregs of our past, a necessity as Henry and Grace quickly became attached at the hip that year. Oh, God, poor word choice considering what I've just interrupted.

"Who's staying with you while he's gone?"

"The neighbors, but they've gone. Papa was supposed to be home hours ago, and they had a reservation in the mountains for the weekend."

Of course.

"Did he say when he'd be home?"

"No, ma'am. He was trying to get a stand by seat on another flight about two hours ago, but I don't know if he did or not."

Fuck. Even if he got on a flight right after he hung up the phone with her, he's still several hours away. Grace's parents are divorced. Her mother lives in Australia, has for nearly a decade now after she and Jefferson split, and as far as I know there's no other family that lives within a hundred miles of us. I can't exactly call Ava's parents and invite her over. Which leaves me only one option. That I do not, do not like.

"Henry, go get a fresh set of linens from the closet and make up a bed for Grace on the couch. Then you're to come straight back to your room, and I don't want to see you outside of it until breakfast, after which you'll return to it for the rest of the weekend."

"What? You're going to ground me for doing the same thing you did on your date?"

Oh, he'd have better not have done what I did on my date.

When they ask me on the witness stand why I killed Robin Locksley, I'll be sure to describe this exchange in exacting, embarrassing detail, right down to the angry flush pinking both Henry's and my cheeks as we square off in the middle of his bedroom.

"You're being grounded for your insubordination after I said Grace couldn't come over. Should I tack on an additional day for the attitude as well?"

At this he looks down, mumbles, _No, ma'am,_ as he leaves the room to do as I bade him, and leaves me alone in the room with his... girlfriend?

Why me? Why tonight?

"Come on. We're about the same size. You can borrow some sweats to sleep in."

She nods and follows me out of Henry's room, glancing over the banister as we walk down the hallway to my room, trying to catch a glimpse of my son as he stuffs pink flowered sheets between the cushions of our brown leather couch in the living room. I can hear him muttering to himself as he works, just like his father used to, and it triggers both a surge of affection and annoyance. He gets more like Daniel every day. That particular habit drove me batty on more than one occasion.

I flick on the light in my bedroom and march straight to the dresser housing my casual clothes. Grace hovers at the doorway, rocking back and forth on her heels, trying to look around the room without appearing to do so. "You can come in," I say, pulling a well worn pair of gray sweatpants and an old Georgetown t-shirt from the second drawer. "You know I don't bite."

"Much," Grace says, and then claps her hand over her mouth as I whip around to face her. "Oh, Ms. Mills, I'm so sorry. It just slipped out."

Must not laugh. Must not laugh at the impertinent teenager. Must not laugh at the impertinent teenager for having a sense of humor far too close to my own for my own good.

She's right, of course. She's been in my house as much as Henry's been in Jefferson's over the last seven years, has seen my temper on a few occasions, and I'm sure she's heard the stories bandied around town about my business practices.

And then there's the glaring evidentiary support shining like a beacon on my neck.

I can't let the comment pass unacknowledged, but I'm not going to yell at her for speaking the truth. I settle for a raised eyebrow and throw her a brief smirk before beckoning her further into the room. "Go try these on, please." I motion her to my ensuite, and when she closes the door behind her, I flop onto the bed and fling my arm over my eyes.

I should have come home. I shouldn't have stayed for dinner, definitely should have said no to the walk in the park with the dark corners and the cover of night. Hickeys and busting my son and his girlfriend aside, though, I can't find it within me to regret what happened. It's been a very good night.

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and I scramble upright, hoping my recollection hasn't left me looking as breathy and disheveled as I feel. Grace stands in the doorway, clutching her own clothes to her chest in a neat, folded pile with her shoes on top. "They fit," she says. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You get to explain all this to your father tomorrow."

And I'm going to have a long, serious discussion with my son as well.

She nods, looking down at her socked feet. "We didn't really do anything, you know."

Oh, I think we differ on what _anything_ means. But I won't walk down that path. Not right now. Not when I have to call Jefferson to tell him my son was caught feeling up his daughter. In bed. While I was out on a date for the first time since we—

"Ms. Mills?"

I sigh, push off the bed with a fist on either side of my legs. "It never starts with something, Grace. It always starts as nothing, and then you're in over your head before you realize you were going under."

We head downstairs, passing Henry's closed door without comment, and as soon as Grace is settled on the sofa, I snag my glass of water and lock up the house, arming the security system before retreating to my own room.

God, what a day.

And it's not over yet.

I thumb through my contacts list as I slip out of my date attire and into my last set of clean pajamas. Laundry, then, tomorrow. Maybe I'll have Henry do it. As punishment. For disobeying me. Not because he was making out with his girlfriend. In his bed. While I was out.

Right.

I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my shoulders, and for a few moments I consider allowing myself to drift off to sleep. But no, I can't do that. I'm the adult here. And even if Jefferson is still in the air, he's going to get home eventually and find his daughter missing. He may be a lot of things, but a lackadaisical parent isn't one of them.

Sighing, I initiate the call and wedge the phone between my ear and the pillow. As predicted, his number rings straight to voicemail.

_You've reached Jefferson Realms Realty. Press one to hear our normal business hours or two to leave a message. _

"Jefferson, it's Regina. I have something of yours sleeping on my couch tonight. Everyone's fine, but we need to talk. You can pick her up tomorrow morning after breakfast. Nine a.m. sharp. See you then."

This was not the worst thing to come home to, I suppose, rolling onto my back and tapping the locked phone screen with my thumbnails.

Clickity-click, clickity-click.

The house could have been on fire. Henry could have thrown a boozy, hazy party. Ruby could have broken in again.

Clickity-click, clickity-click.

Hell.

I flip through my contacts list and pull up Robin's entry. It's late. Too late for a call, but maybe not a text. Post-first date rules be damned. He gave me two hickeys after promising not to mark me.

_I hope you're quite satisfied with yourself._

He starts typing back almost immediately. _I'm nearly always quite satisfied with myself. Character flaw._

I snort. Of course he is. I snap a quick picture of my neck. The marks aren't as bad as I feared, but they are incredibly obvious. _My son_, I type, putting asterisks around 'son' for emphasis, _saw these on my neck when I got home. _

This time there's a longer pause. I flounce back onto my side, tugging the covers up to my shoulder. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and it's just occurred to me I have no idea if I have enough food to feed three people for breakfast in the morning. I groan into my pillow and set my alarm for a half hour earlier just in case.

Two texts arrive back to back. _I suppose you weren't jesting when you said you bruise easily, _and then, _How can I make it up to you?_

_I'll think of something,_ I say, adding a winky face at the end. _Good night. _

As upset as I am at… everyone, I do want to see Robin again. Soon, if possible. Maybe next weekend. No, wait, my parents will be in town Saturday. I can't inflict a pre or post-parental reunion on him this early. Weekend after next, then?

Just stop. Go to sleep. Deal with Jefferson and Henry and Grace tomorrow, file the paperwork for Schaeffer, Blanchard, &amp; Associates on Monday, and then on Tuesday, during lunch, you can dither about the man. Good plan.

I click off the lamp on my nightstand, smiling a little to myself as the pleasant haze, the one curled in my chest like a lazy cat, creeps back in, and makes itself comfortable once more.


End file.
